My Tale
by Pied Piper 1830
Summary: The tale of Duo's past: from the time he was born until the time he set off for Operation Meteor.
1. Prologue

Title: My Tale (working title)

Author: Pied Piper

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: None

Warnings: first person POV (for this chapter only), references to prostitution, minor original character death, one semi-bad word.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing.  

A/N/summary: Basically, the story of Duo's past, probably going to end right before Operation Meteor.  The first person POV is most likely going to be this chapter only, and it's of Duo (just in case you couldn't figure that out).  So, read, enjoy, and, if it so suits you, review.  ^_~ 

_What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd!_

_How sweet their memory still!_

_But they have left an aching void_

_The world can never fill._

_~William Cowper~_

My Tale: Prologue

Reminiscence 

            There's not much that I remember about my mother.  I remember that she was pretty and had long hair, but it wasn't until lately that I realized she had dyed it: hiding hair that was, most likely, the same colour as mine.  But it may have been some other colour; guess I'll never know.  My mother was a prostitute named Foxfire, but I didn't know what that was until after she died, and when I did learn, boy was I shocked.  Some guy, most likely trying to make me feel guilty, tried to tell me that she sold her body to keep me alive, but it was the other way around:  I was alive because she sold her body.  And because the condoms sold on L2 aren't exactly top of the line.  As you could probably guess, one broke, and here I am today.  Foxfire didn't even know who my father was, but I guess that was to be expected.  It was just another job to her, after all.

I remember the way she used to talk.  Her words were always slurred together, but it was what she said that stuck with me.  "Boys don't cry," she would tell me, and she kept telling me that right up to the day she got killed.  "You a big boy?" she'd ask,  "Then stop crying: big boys don't cry."  Then: BAM!  Even before I was old enough to read, she was gone.

We had a fairly good relationship, I suppose.  I was too young to be of much help to her, but, seeing as how I didn't starve and how I was somehow toilet trained, she probably didn't hate me.  But she would have been a lot better off if I had never come.  Once a girl's had a kid, she's never the same, both mentally and, more importantly for her, physically.  She didn't have the same youthful body that she'd once had, and many of her frequent costumers left her for more supple women.  My father may have been one of them . . . but not all of them left.

I remember being kept awake at night by strange sounds coming from my mother's room.  I was scared, but I knew better than to leave the safety of my makeshift crib:  Mommy would be mad.  And so I would lie in my crib and just listen in silence; sometimes singing gentle lullabies to sooth myself to sleep.

My mother was a completely different person during the day.  She was always tired, yet tried her best to be gentle with me and, unwanted though I may have been, I never felt unloved.  But at night. . . she was no longer my mother.  She would put on clothes that looked painfully tight, and the makeup she wore covered any sort of blemish she thought she had.  She was so beautiful at night, and that scared me.  She used to put me to bed at seven and leave for a few hours, sometimes returning with some man and sometimes not returning until morning.  I had no idea when she slept, but she managed somehow.  She always did.  And then she died.

It was a normal day; the day that she died, until a bomb threat that happened about mid-afternoon.  We were in a grocery store when the sirens started going off around us.  Duck and cover, they told us, and duck and cover I did, 'till my mother told me that we had to get out of there.  Just as we got to the door, Foxfire realized that her purse, the one that held food money for the entire month, was back in the store.  She shoved me out the door and, only a few seconds after she had run back in; a bomb went off from the inside.  I was thrown through the air and nearly broke my arm as I rammed into a wall, but I fared far better than my mother.  Far better than my mother. . .  She died that day, along with about fifty others who were unlucky enough to be shopping in a grocery store at that particular time.  It was a cruel thing that those terrorists did that day, cruel even for my standards.  To place one bomb in all of the major grocery stores in L2 (even though there were only three) and to detonate them (even though the time was early, when not many people would be shopping) deprived L2 not only of people, but also of food.  The shopping centers didn't return, and many people went hungry until street vendors became more common, street vendors I would steal from later.

I can't say that I cried when my mother died.  I never really saw her dead, so it didn't occur to me for years that she was really gone.  I just turned around and left the store, and with it, all the pieces of my old life.  I left behind my family, my home, my name; and I became one of the many war orphans who spent their entire lives searching for a family, a home, a name.  This is my tale, this is what made me what I am today, this is who I am.

I am the bastard son of a prostitute.

I am Duo Maxwell.  


	2. Ways of the Street part 1

Title: My Tale 1/?

Author: Pied Piper

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: none

Warnings: slight swearing (s-word this time), death of a minor . . . rat, more references to prostitution, literary references to a classic (see if you can find it, I think I've made it obvious, but I'm just experimenting with some new techniques here)

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing

Summary: Duo learns the "ways of the street" from an older boy he meets on the streets.

A/N: This isn't as smooth as I'd like it to be, but my writing abilities are a bit rusty from lack of use, so just be patient and they'll (hopefully) improve.  As I stated above, I have an ongoing literary reference in this chapter, and I've tried to make it obvious as to what book it is I'm referencing to, please tell me if you spot it.  Oh, and the first person paragraph in the beginning of this chapter doesn't necessarily fit, it's more foreshadowing to later chapters, and it's what my fingertips wrote, so I've decided to trust in the process and keep it.  And, as always, please read and, if it suits you, review.

I'd like to give a special thanks to Ally127, Kyuoki-chan, and Sebastian for giving me reviews; that really meant a lot to me, and I thank you.  ^_^

"Treachery don't come natural to beaming youth; but trust and pity, love and constancy,--they do, thank God!""  Charles Dickens

"I have been one acquainted with the night."  Robert Frost

My Tale: Chapter 1

Ways of the Streets

            Duo Maxwell hasn't always been my name.  No, I had a name before that, a name that was ordinary and American, but I don't remember it now.  Whatever name I had, it was abandoned the day I met Solo.  When he met me, Solo had said that I have a fine name, a respectable name, but no name for a street rat, or, more importantly, one of his street rats.  He wanted me to pick my own name, and until then, I would be known as "kid," and with a lowercase "k" at that.  It was the name he affectionately gave all of his street rats until they picked one of their own.  Most of them had a name pretty darn quick, but it took me three years to pick mine.  Too bad Solo had fallen asleep five minutes earlier, and too bad he would never wake up from that sleep.  As I watched them burn his carcass that night, something inside of me died just as something else was born.  I changed that cold night in December, but at that time I never realized how much.

AC182.  _Three years earlier . . ._           

            'Boys don't cry," the young boy thought to himself as he trudged along the dirty streets of L2, but he couldn't stop a few tears from trailing down dirt caked cheeks.  It had been three days since the "accident," and he was cold, hungry, and he missed his mother more than anything.  She would know what to do in this situation; she would know how to get food.  He sure didn't.  On the first day of his new life, the boy had tried to steal some food from a vendor, but that had only proved to be a disaster: now, not only was he cold, hungry, and lonely, but he also had a bacon shaped bruise on his arm from where a piece of brick had been chucked at him.  But what else was there to do; who else was there to steal from?  Perhaps . . . one of the citizens . . .?  Yes, that was it.  With his mind made up, the young boy set out to look for his first victim.  

            "That's him," the boy muttered as he spotted an older teenage blond boy with his arms overflowing with apples.  Red, juicy apples, overflowing with nutrients and all those good things in life, and the boy could already feel his mouth watering.  Surely the blond wouldn't notice if one went missing, would he?  The hungry boy crept towards the blond as quietly as he could, then grimaced as he heard, as though from a distance, the deep rumbling of his aching belly.  'Please don't let him hear,' the young boy prayed silently to whatever god would listen, but no god did.  

            The blond twisted around and peered at the quivering child, then dropped his apples on the dirty ground and picked up the would-be thief by the collar; lifting him as easily as one would lift a sack of feathers.           

            "You want one of my apples, punk?"

            The young child could only nod desperately, hunger having more of an influence over him than fear.    

            "You want one of these, is it?"  He dropped the boy and held up an apple in front of his face, snickering as the child reached for it.  "You think I should give this to you, don't cha?"  He dropped the apple into the boy's outstretched hands.  "You can take it, I've got enough anyway."  He watched the boy eating the apple so fast that he nearly choked, and smirked.  "What's your name, punk?"

            The young boy quickly swallowed.  "Oliver," he said as he wiped some juice from his face.

            "Oliver, eh?  I like the name punk better.  You got a family, punk?"

            Oliver sighed.  "I don't . . . I don't think so."

            He smirked.  "I'll take that as a no.  Well, since you ain't got a family, you might as well come stay with me and my gang; we could use a little punk like you, once you're taught the ways of the street that is.  How's about it?  We got ourselves a deal?"

            Oliver nodded quickly.

            The blond haired boy held out his hand.  "The name's Dodger, come on, I'll show you to my place."  Not even waiting for a reply, he took Oliver's hand and led him away.  

            They stopped suddenly in an alleyway and Dodger grinned.  "This is it," he said with a proud smirk.

            Oliver looked around.  "Where?"

            "We're standing on it, punk."  He knelt down and opened a drainpipe.  "We live underground, where the cops won't go; safest place around, even if it is a bit wet."  Dodger jumped down and watched while Oliver fell in after him; splashing into a puddle of water.  He smirked, and then twisted around with outstretched arms.  "Welcome home.  Hey, sewer rats, we got ourselves a newcomer!"

            What was at one time an empty sewer was now filled with about eight children, though the cramped spaces made it seem like many more.  Each dark haired boy was covered in filth and wore clothes that looked either too large or too small, and even though each had dark bags under their eyes, they all looked alert.  "This is Roy," Dodger, the only blond among them all, began, "Dollar, Eli, Chewy, Homerun, Chico, Jerry and Joey."  He motioned to each boy in turn; a few nodded at Oliver, but most just stared.  "Boys, this punk here is Oliver," They all nodded again in greeting, and Dodger turned back to Oliver.  "Girls work at night, so you'll meet them later."  He glared at the other boys suddenly.  "What are you doing down here anyway?" he yelled, "shouldn't you be working?"  The kids jumped as a whole, then scattered, leaving Oliver and Dodger alone.  

            "So . . . what do ya think," Dodger asked, "Home sweet home?"

            Oliver peered around the damp gloom of the sewers, and couldn't help but to wrinkle his nose.  "It smells funny."  He held his nose for emphasizes.

            "Yea, well, we're living in people's shit right now, what did you expect it to smell like, daisies?"  Dodger laughed at his own twisted sense of humor, and then stared at Oliver's blank face.  "You're potty trained, right, punk?"

            Oliver nodded.

            Dodger smirked.  "Ever wonder what happens when ya' flush the toilet?  It goes down here, so don't even think about drinking the water."

            "What do I drink?"

            "Whatever you can steal, so we're gonna have to work on your non-existent pick pocketing skills, or you're gonna starve to death.  First, though, we gotta teach you some rules."  Dodger twisted around and crouched down to Oliver's level.  "Number one:  we ain't the three musketeers, so it ain't 'all for one and one for all' down here.  In other words, you fall behind, and you'll get left behind."  He stood up and sauntered away, then pointed down a long pipe way.  "See that yonder pipe?  Get used to this view of it, because that's all you're ever gonna see.  It's where the girls sleep, and leaving the girls alone is rule number two.  On a good night, each of them makes about a hundred bucks, so around here; you treat them like a god, got it?  They say bow, you say how low, 'cause without them; we'd go hungry.  You getting this, punk?"

            Oliver twisted up his face as he mentally stored away all this newfound knowledge, then nodded.  "Yea, I got it; what's rule number three?"

            Dodger chuckled.  "Who says I'm gonna tell you rule number three?  You'll find that one out on your own, besides, I think two rules are plenty for a stupid punk like you to try and remember.  But now we've got to move on to something a little more . . . useful."

            "Like what?"

            "Like teaching you how to pick pocket."

            "First thing you gotta do," began Dodger as he and Oliver wandered along the market street, "is pick your victim; obviously.  They have to look like a money bags, or it just ain't worth your time."  He leaned against a concrete wall and surveyed the crowd.  "So, punk, which or these people do you think would make a good steal?"

            Oliver peered around for a minute, then pointed at a man wearing a black suit and paten leather shoes, but Dodger only snickered.

            "Yea, he probably does have money, but there's one little problem: he's a guy.  Guys keep their money in their back pockets, so they're a little above your level right now.  You'd be better off going for a girl with a purse.  Someone like . . . her."  He motioned towards a pretty blond female.  "She looks like a daddy's girl now doesn't she?  You stay here, and watch the master at work."

            Dodger sauntered over to the young girl, then sidestepped and started examining some pears instead.  He picked out a few ripe fruits and turned, rather quickly, to alert the vendor of his desires to purchase.  Apparently not watching where he was going, Dodger crashed into the female and sent her falling to the ground.  "Sorry ma'am," he exclaimed as he helped her up, "didn't see you there.  You're not hurt, are you?"

            She smiled and shook her head.  "No, I'm fine, thank you.  What's your name?  You're kinda cute. .  ."

            "You're not so bad yourself, I'm David, what's yours, cutie?"

            A deep red blush spread across her cheeks.  "Danielle, my name is Danielle."

            "Nice to meet ya', Danielle."  Dodger bent down to pick up Danielle's purse and the things she intended to buy.  She reached out to take them back, but Dodger shook his head.  "No," he began, "let me buy them for you; it's the least that I could do to compensate for practically running you over."

            Danielle smiled as he cheerfully bought her food, and then kissed him on the cheek.  "Thank you," she said, "it's nice to know that there are still a few good hearts left on this god-forsaken colony."  She took her food and walked away.

            Dodger watched her go and grinned as he walked back to Oliver, swinging the girl's purse around his fingers.  "Catch that, punk?  The trick is to distract them, make 'em so interested in something else that they never notice their disappearing money."

            Oliver couldn't help but to look up in awe at Dodger.  "Can I try?" he asked, his voice trembling with anticipation and with the fear of being caught.

            His mentor grinned and twisted the girl's purse strap around his wrist.  "Nope, not today punk: it's getting dark: you can have a go at it tomorrow."  He looked up at the dimming artificial lights and turned to leave.  "Come on, the girls 'ill be leaving soon and I want you to meet them before they do."

            The walk back to the sewers seemed shorter than it was before and within seconds it seemed, Dodger and Oliver were dropping into the "hallway."  No longer deserted, the hallway was now bustling with life as a swarm of females flitted around, yelling out to each other as they tried to get ready for . . . something.  Oliver gawked at them for a minute, then felt something click in his small mind.  "Mommy?" he whispered with a tentative quiver to his voice.  

            "Mommy?!"  Dodger laughed.  "You're mommy ain't here punk."

            "Where is she?"

            He shrugged.  "How should I know?  She's probably dead somewhere."

            "Dead . . ." Oliver shook his head, trying to understand.  "I don't . . . I don't get it."

            The sigh Dodger gave was mixed with wisdom and annoyance, "She's dead punk, she's gone, as in, never coming back.  You got that, punk?"  
            "Never coming back . . ." A small voice inside Oliver's head began to quiver.  'Boys don't cry,' it chanted, 'boys don't cry.'  Oliver swallowed his tears and struggled to listen to the small voice.

            "Aw Dodger, look at you, you're making the poor thing cry . . ." a sweet voice chided, and Oliver soon found himself face to face with a girl whose green hair matched her green eyes perfectly.

            The chanting voice shut up instantly.

            She smiled gently.  "That's better.  My name's Ivy, what's yours?"

            "Oliver."  His voice seemed small and unsteady; similar to the voice he had heard chanting.

            "Oliver . . ." She seemed to be deep in thought, then her face light up.  "Oliver: I like that name."  She leaned in closer.  "Now, is Dodger making you cry?  Because if he is, you just tell Ivy and she'll make him stop."

            Oliver glanced up and into Dodger's glaring eyes, then shook his head.  "Now, he's not."

            "Alright, but make sure you watch yourself.  Dodger's . . ." Ivy's voice grew softer, "he's a good kid, if he likes you that is, but if you get onto his bad side . . . he can really turn your life into a twisted mess."  One of the girls called her over, and she gave Oliver one last smile before flitting off.

            Dodger glared daggers at Oliver, then the daggers seemed to fade away as he shrugged.  "And that's Ivy, don't take anything she says seriously.  Now, I think it's time for little punks to go to bed."

            Oliver blinked as he looked around.  "But no one else is going to bed, and I'm hungry."

            The daggers seemed to be taking careful aim once more.  " Have you done anything to deserve food?"

            "You gave me an apple before."

            They fired.  "You looked pitiful,  and I felt sorry for you.  Eli!"  Another boy ran up and stood beside Dodger.  "This punk here's tired, get him a blanket and find him a sleeping place, will ya?"

            Eli mock saluted, and then smirked at Oliver.  "Come on, follow me."  He led the newcomer down the pipe opposite the girls', and into what looked to be a hole dug out of the side of a concrete wall.  It was dark inside, and dirty, but surprisingly not damp.  "We sleep here," Eli stated as Oliver climbed inside, "Just . . . find a comfy spot, and I'll go get you a blanket."  He ran off.

            Oliver couldn't help but to shiver as he tried to find an area that was not too lumpy and not already taken.  It was cold, and he missed his mother more than anything.  She couldn't be gone, could she?  Surely if he went back to the supermarket, he'd find her there, waiting for him.  She'd be mad that he left, but she'd be proud that he didn't cry.  Finally, after a few minutes of intense searching, Oliver found a space that was neither filthy nor taken and wearily plopped down onto it; listening to the faint sound of running water and the ever present sound of his stomach complaining.  Another sound became apparent; the sound of footsteps reverberating off a slightly damp wall, and within a few minutes, Eli appeared, carrying a worn blanket and a steaming cup of something.

            "I thought you might be hungry," Eli explained as he handed Oliver the blanket and cup, "so I got you some soup, better drink it now so I can take the cup back; if you leave it here, we'll have rats, and they bring diseases."  He watched as Oliver all but swallowed the soup in one gulp, and then took back the cup.  "Try to go to sleep now; Dodger 'ill probably wake you up early tomorrow."

            Oliver nodded as he laid out his blanket, then laid down upon it and closed his eyes; feeling sleep creep up on him like a swarm of disease-ridden rats.

            Everyone was asleep when Oliver awoke, and he laid in his "bed" for a fair while, wondering whether he should get up or try to go back to sleep.  It was dark, and cold, and ever so quiet that, despite the snores, Oliver could hear the faint patter of little rodent toes.  And then, the footsteps of something bigger, something slower . . . didn't alligators live in the sewers?  Finally, Oliver couldn't stand it anymore; he'd rather get eaten by the alligator then lay in here all night.  With that in mind, he climbed out of his blanket and, stepping over the sleeping blond between him and the exit, made his way out of the sleeping area and into the long pipe that still seemed foreign to him.  The pipes lead to another pipe, which lead to another, which lead to a ladder, which then lead to the upper world.  Oliver wandered for a while, knowing that he should be asleep, but something kept driving him to go on, and so he did.

            It was dark outside, though not like the stifling darkness of the sewers, which clung to your body like a thick blanket that threatened to grab hold and choke.  No, this darkness was open and full of lights and sounds that beckoned Oliver forward like a moth is beckoned toward a flame.  Oliver eagerly became acquainted to the night; exploring the many alleyways and avoiding any and all humans who came into his sight.  He watched a brown rat sniffing some still burning cigarette embers, and could have sworn he heard Eli behind him.  "Rats bring diseases," he was saying, but this rat seemed harmless enough.  Suddenly, it gave a loud squeak as its coat caught on fire.  Filled with panic and fear, the rat ran blindly into a pile of old newspapers, which erupted into flame.  'Guess they also bring fire,' Oliver thought drying as he watched the newspapers twist in the flames.

            He heard a step behind him, and he spun around, looking just in time to see a woman with flaming red hair run around a corner.  "Mommy?!" Oliver tried to cry, but his voice caught as he ran after her, only to run straight into Dodger. 

            "What are you doing, punk?  I thought I told you to go to bed, " Dodger growled, his eyes red with anger.

            "I . . . I saw my mommy . . .

            Dodger's eyes darkened.  "I thought I told you that your mom was dead!  Never coming back, remember?!"

            "But . . ."

            "No, buts!  Get back in bed!"  He began to advance on Oliver, but Oliver side stepped and twisted around, running all the way back to the sewers and into his blanket, practically tripping over the blond haired boy asleep by the exit in his haste.  He closed his eyes, and soon drifted off.

(chapter continued, ffn wouldn't let me put the whole thing in one chapter)


	3. Ways of the Street part 2

Chapter 1 continued . . .

Oliver awoke the next morning to the feel of a rough hand on his small shoulder.  "Rise and shine, punk," he heard Dodger say and, with the apprehensive obedience of a child awaiting a scolding, he rose.

But no scolding came.  As if the events of last night had been but a mere dream (had it?), the blond haired Dodger helped Oliver up and handed him a biscuit.  "Here," he said, "eat this.  You'll need your energy for today, just in case you get caught."

"What do I do if I get caught?"

"What do you think?  You run, and don't look for me to help either.  Remember, everyone's on their own out here; that's the ways of the street.  Now come on, we've got to get going."  He twisted around and led Oliver out of the sewers and into the small market, which, despite the early time, was already bustling with energy.

"This is the perfect time for a beginner like you to pickpocket," Dodger began as they intermingled with the many shoppers, "most of the people shopping are moms with one too many kids to look after; they make easy targets.  Watch."  He sauntered over to a young woman with a little baby girl in one hand and a boy looking to be no older than Oliver in the other.  The young mother seemed to examine some magazines for a minute, and then she made her way over to the vendor to purchase one.  Just as she set her purse down and turned to her magazine, Dodger snaked by and stole it.  He smirked as he tossed the purse to Oliver.  "Easy as pie, now you try."

            Suddenly, the young woman let out a shrill cry.  "Someone stole my purse, oh my god, someone stole my purse!"

            Oliver started to run, but was caught by Dodger.  "Guess I should tell you rule number three now, since you're about to figure it out for yourself."  He had a twisted look in his eyes as he articulated each word slowly.  "Don't trust anyone."  He yanked Oliver's hand and the purse into the air and waved it around.  "Is this your purse ma'am?  This punk almost ran into me in his mad rush to escape."

            Oliver's eyes grew wide as realization hit him like a swarm of rats and he struggled to escape Dodger, and finally did, only to run straight into a policeman.  He barely even noticed as the policeman grabbed him and began to tell him about the prison in store for him; all Oliver's attention was on Dodger, who was being rewarded for his valiant efforts.  'Boys don't cry' he heard his mom say, but try as he might, Oliver couldn't stop a tear from leaking out.

TBC . . .


	4. Nothingness and a Lone Dog part 1

Title: My Tale part 1 of 2/? (first part of the second chapter) Author: Pied Piper Rating: PG-13 Pairings: None Warnings: bad words, references to prostitution, most likely nothing that you haven't read before.   
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. Summary: A tale of the events that made Duo what he is today. A/N: I'm about half way through the second chapter (no, I haven't be struggling to write for the past month, I only really started a week ago) so I decided to post it now instead of making you guys wait until it's complete (I'll have to split it in two anyway, because ff.n doesn't like big files). The second part will be out before the first of July, if not sooner. If you want me to notify you when the next chapter comes out, just email me or let me know in the review, and I'd be glad to oblige.

I'd like to thank Ally127, Cassie, Hexagon, Sallie, Amber, and Abbally for reviewing my story, I love you guys so much and I'm sorry I made you wait so long.

_"There is nothing better fitted to delight the reader than change of circumstances and varieties of fortune"_ Cicero

_"Children are curious and are risk takers. They have lots of courage. They venture out into a world that is immense and dangerous. A child initially trusts life and the processes of life."_John Bradshaw

Oliver wasn't really afraid of the dark: he had never been told tales of scary monsters that lurked in the shadows and thus, didn't even know they existed. Even though he wasn't afraid of it, Oliver still didn't much like the dark: he'd rather be in the artificial sunlight where his mommy would wait with arms outstretched for him, but it was dark here, so his mommy was nowhere to be found. She was waiting for him where the sunlight shone, and for right now, Oliver was alone.  
But he wasn't entirely alone. No, he was in-fact with a handful of other people, all crammed into a one-person cell and given enough food to leave them all . . . still hungry. They were nice people though. One, a short man with whiskers and a rat like nose, had even given Oliver half his ration, even if the man had sneezed on it earlier. As for the other cell mates, well . . . they pretty much left Oliver up to his own doing, and could care less whether he lived or died, just as long as he didn't snore too loudly when he slept. Luckily, Oliver didn't snore. But then again, he didn't sleep much either. At night, Oliver would stay awake for hours and watch the stars from the small window: so small, so distant, and yet so close that if Oliver just reached out far enough, surely he could catch one and have it be his own little sunlight. After a few nights, he realized that he was not the only one who watched the stars.  
There was a boy in the cell whom Oliver first mistook as being Dodger, but quickly realized was someone different. This boy, like Dodger, was tall with blue eyes and blond hair but, unlike Dodger, the hair of this boy was long. It fell down to the middle of his back, and was pulled into a low ponytail, but it couldn't hold a few strands that escaped and framed his gaunt face. The boy didn't seem mean, but then again, neither had Dodger. Just to be on the safe side, Oliver avoided this boy "like the plague," but he couldn't help his curiosity.  
For some reason, this boy didn't have the same depressed attitude of all the other cell mates: he seemed to be patiently waiting for something, and just enjoying the wait. . .   
Waiting for something . . .   
Oliver could feel himself start to wait for something, anything to happen. He was still young, he longed to run around and, well, do anything but sit here, in this small cell, hour after hour, day after day. He was bored. There was nothing to do but sit, sleep, or pace, and try his best to avoid the blond boy. But one morning Oliver awoke (but when had he fallen asleep? he couldn't remember) and found himself face to face with the blond.  
The blond scrutinized him for a few long minutes. "What's your name, kid?"  
"Oliver . . ." the familiarity of this situation made Oliver nervous.  
The blond blinked at Oliver. "Oliver: that's not a street name. Do you have a family waiting for you somewhere, kid?"  
"My mommy's waiting for me where the sun is."  
The blond raised his eyebrows. "Where the sun is? And where would that be?"  
A giggle escaped Oliver's lips. "At the food store; she's waiting for me there."  
"Do you mean one of the supermarkets?"  
He nodded. "Yea, that's it. She's waiting for me there."  
The blond watched Oliver for a few minutes, a strange expression on his face before he sighed and looked away. He eventually looked up once more and smiled at Oliver. "I'm Solo, and I'm going to look after you for awhile, okay?"  
"Until I can find my mom?" He was determined to believe that Dodger was a liar.  
Solo sighed, "Yea, until we can find your mom."  
  
Life wasn't too bad once Oliver became acquainted with the blond. During the day, he had someone to talk with, someone to keep him company; at night, there was a thin shoulder to lean up and a pair of watchful eyes to guard him. The cell became Oliver's playground while Solo became his surrogate brother, his teacher, and when the time came, his deliverer. That time turned out to be sooner than Oliver expected.  
There was no dramatic escaped for Solo and Oliver, just a simple, well thought-out plan. It began with the arrival of a new cell mate; a puny little girl looking to be the same age as Oliver, with straight, mousy brown hair that fell to her chin, her shoulders, her ears, and everywhere in-between, and beady black eyes. The girl gave a little squeak when dropped into the cell, but stood herself up and made her way to Solo. "Did I do good?" she asked; her voice was high pitched and mousy.  
"Yea cutie, you did good. A little late, but that's okay. Where's your friend?"  
"I let him go right before they searched me, and I made sure he had a pick tied around him, just like you wanted."  
"This one knows his name, right? You remember what happened last time . . ."  
She giggled and nodded her head up and down. "Of course so."  
"Prove it."  
Oliver watched as the puny little girl scampered over to the barred door and stuck her hand through. "Enfermy," she muttered, stretched her fingers out as far as they would go. "Come here Enfermy." It was only a few seconds later when a large rat the colour of well worn mud scampered across the hall and into the girl's outstretched fingers. She held it close to her breast and cuddled it for a bit, then held it up so that Solo could see the thin metal stick tied securely around its belly. She gave a cheeky grin before undoing the stick and tossing it to Solo.  
"Thanks, Rats," he said, then turned to Oliver and held up the stick. "This, my little friend, is something we street rats like to use to pick locks. It'll come in handy when we escape. And this," he put his arms around the puny girl, "is Rats: a crazy little girl with an odd infatuation with the creatures we all love to hate. Got to admit though, they do come in handy sometimes." Rats giggled. "Now," Solo began once again, taking up a more responsible air as he made his way to the locked gate, "you watch the master at work." Seemingly unaware that the eyes of everyone in the cell were on him, Solo peered through the bars, then nodded and snaked his left arm between the bars and fiddled with the lock until a faint click was heard. He swung the door open as quietly as seemed possible. "And now," he said with a smug grin, "we escape." Motioning with one hand, Solo led Rats and Oliver out of the cell and out of the jail, leaving the door wide open for any other prisoner who wished to escape as well.  
  
Unlike Dodger's sewer, Solo's place of residence was an ancient building that may have been a house at one time but was now so run-down that it didn't even seem livable; at least, not livable for normal people. It suited Solo just fine, and Oliver decided that it would suit him just fine also. The house was large and held an unnamable amount of nooks and crannies that were just waiting to be explored by whatever kid was up to the challenge. Oliver was. The moment Solo opened the door he took off, going into every room in his attempt to see everything, and running into so many other kids along the way that he couldn't even begin to remember their names. Puck, Maria, Samson, Four-eyes, Demon, and many others that Oliver walked in on. And of course, there were Rats and all of her rodent friends, and Solo, who had offered a place for Oliver to stay until he found his mother.  
One of the first things Oliver noticed about the house (besides how large it was), was the large amount of food that was within his reach. Apples, pears, bananas, cookies, breads, canned stuff, and nasty looking brown bars were all within easy reach, and Solo said that he could have as much as he wanted today, but he'd have to help steal it tomorrow. And not to worry: someone who knew what he was doing would be there to help and teach, and they wouldn't let him get sent to jail again. For now, just rest and try to relax, we'll worry about that tomorrow.  
And Oliver believed him.  
  
The beginnings of Oliver's first full day began similar to his first day with Dodger, only different. He was woken up with a gentle shake on his shoulder by Solo, not a rough one and, though he was given a biscuit like before, he was also given a banana and a small bowl of porridge, which he ate with Rats while trying to ignore the small crowd of rodents gathered around her body, all watching her fingers go from bowl to mouth, bowl to mouth. Instead, he directed his attention elsewhere, staring around at the small groups of kids, all in their own conversations and enjoying their own lives: four young girls all seated on one ancient armchair, reading an age old issue of Cosmopolitan with wide eyes, three older boys sitting on the floor nearby, laughing at them; everyone seemed to be relaxed and having a good time.  
"Beautiful, ain't it?" Solo said as he plopped down besides Rats and ripped open the wrapper to one of those nasty looking bars. "Makes me proud. I brought 'em all in, you know. Off the streets. Taught 'em how to steal, how to get by. It's almost like a little school here, only without the reading."  
"Can you read?" Oliver asked.  
"Ya', but it's kinda hard to teach when books are hard to find. Besides, you don't need those kind of smarts to get by on the streets; you gotta be street smart, and that can't be taught. Speaking of teaching and learning, you ready to learn some life skills Oliver?"  
Oliver nodded.  
"Alright then, time to meet your teacher." He motioned over a large teenage male whose muscles were as large as his brown hair was long, and since his hair fell nearly to his knees, that was saying a lot. "This, my little friend," Solo began, "is Samson. He's Rats' older brother, and he'll be teaching you for today."  
Oliver stared. "But I thought you were going to teach me Solo."  
Solo grinned and ruffled Oliver's short hair. "I will," he said, "just not right now. I'll probably be meeting up with you guys a little later in the day."  
"Can we try to find my mommy then?"  
Solo said nothing for a minute, and then nodded, a shadow passing over his face. "Ya', we'll see if we can find her, but no promises, okay?"  
Nodding quickly, Oliver turned to Samson with a shy grin (shyness not being on of his normal personality traits, but this guy seemed like he could crush a little kid without breaking a sweat). "When are we going to leave?" he asked.  
Surprisingly, Samson's deep voice was not gruff and harsh, but gentle and smooth. "After I get some breakfast," he replied, "I'm starved." And indeed he was. Even though his portion was twice as large as Oliver's, he was down before Oliver was even half way through and ended up patiently waiting for him to finish. Seeing that his mentor was already done, Oliver ate as quickly as he could and put his bowl down with a loud thump.   
"Finished," he announced with a grin.   
"'Bout time too," replied Samson, but his voice was teasing. He took their bowls and put them in Rats', who swatted at his hand but giggled non-the-less. "Anyway," he began with a grin, "we should get going; get an early start, you know?" Giving Solo and Rats a short wave, the gentle giant gently led Oliver out of the bustling house and into the bustling street, and Oliver could already feel his heart start to race.

End part 1


	5. Nothingness and a Lone Dog part 2

Title: My Tale part 2 of 2/? (second part of the second chapter)  
Author: Pied Piper  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairings: None  
Warnings: bad words, references to prostitution, angst (it gets a little more depressing in this chapter folks)  
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or Mickey Mouse ice cream cones.  
Summary: A tale of the events that made Duo what he is today.  
A/N: Yes yes, I know, I said this would be out by July and here it is, end of August, and I'm finally done. I truly am sorry. I've decided that I'm not going to make any more promises about when another chapter will be posted; it'll be posted when it's finished, and not a minute sooner. I can promise that I won't ever drop this story: it's one that I've been wanting to write for a long time, and it's one that I'm taking seriously. So no matter how long the wait is, there will be another chapter coming, I promise. Thank you for being patient.

I'd like to thank Amber (who's reviewed my story twice so far, making me very happy), Amaya Ume (I'm sorry you didn't like the Dickens references, they should end in this chapter), Roku (who made a lovely chapter suggestion that I was going to use until this one shoved itself in my face; don't know why I'm using it but it seemed to fit), Lillia Karasu (teehee, I just talked to you today). I want to give a special thanks to Ally127, who's reviewed every one of my chapters so far and given me such great encouragement. Thank you all!

_Cosmic upheaval is not so moving as a little child pondering the death of a sparrow in the corner of a barn. -Tom Savage._

My Tale: Chapter 2, part 2  
Nothingness and a Lone Dog

Lessons with Samson weren't anywhere's near as bad as Oliver feared and expected: the strong brunette didn't expect Oliver to do anything that day (or the next, for that matter) but to watch and ask and learn. "Remember," he said as they marched home under the fading artificial sunlight, Oliver gleefully munching on a Mickey Mouse ice cream cone that Samson had snatched for him as a reward for a hard day's work, "don't steal money from the buyers, 'cause most of them are poor like us and they need the money too. No, you wanna go right to the source and steal from the vendors; most of them get their stuff from the Alliance anyway, and the Alliance is the reason we're poor like we are. And if you get caught (which you probably will someday), you run like hell, and if they grab you, you drop the stuff you stole and say you're sorry, 'cause you are. No one likes to steal, but we gotta to survive, and most of the cops know that. If you're respectful, they'll normally let you go. Just don't lie, that pisses 'em off pretty quick. You got that, little buddy?"

Oliver nodded and took a bite out of Mickey Mouse's eye.

"Ready to go back?"

He nodded again, working on the other eye. It wasn't until after he finished his ice cream, and after he ate his portion of tomato soap later and was wandering around without much care, that Oliver noticed Solo's absence from his day: he had promised to join them later on, hadn't he? No, not really: he had said he would try, and Solo was probably a very busy man. He'd probably come tomorrow. With that thought in mind, Oliver finally settled down next to Rats, watching her spoon feed her rodent friends with a feeling of mixed curiosity and confusion.

But Solo didn't come the next day, or the day after that for that matter. Trudging back to his new found home with Samson, Oliver stopped suddenly and scanned the horizon, expecting against his will to see Solo's thin frame appear in the distance, but there was only nothingness, nothingness and a lone dog. Shaking his head, Oliver quickly follows his teacher, who was already through the front door and into the kitchen, which smelt pleasantly of food.

"What's cooking?" Samson asked a scrawny boy with glasses (named Four-Eyes, if Oliver could remember correctly), and then looked into a pot before an answer could be given. He let out a disgusted cry as he pulled a large, squirming rat out by the tail and dropped it on the floor, watching as it scurried out of the kitchen. "What the hell was that doing in there? Where's my sister?"

"Sick again," Four-Eyes replied, peering into the soup as though deciding whether it was worth saving or not, "She started throwing up shortly after you left."

Samson sighed. "Sick again? It's those damn rats of hers, always getting her sick."

"Hey, that might be true and all, but what would Rats be without her rats?"

"A normal kid, that's what." The longhaired man turned on his heel, and left.

Four-Eyes watched him go, then turned to Oliver. "You're the new kid right? Oliver ain't it?"

Oliver nodded.

" 'Thought so, Rats was talking 'bout you." He motioned to the soup. " 'Reckon it's still good?" he asked, "Her rats are normally pretty clean, for rats, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste."

Oliver strained to see over the edge of the pot, then settled on sniffing it instead: it smelt fine. 'Smelt good, actually. He nodded, and then blinked as Four-Eyes dropped a large stack of well-worn bowels into his hands. "You can help serve, 'kay? Just had people a bowel as they walk by." Oliver nodded again, and did as he was told.

It's really strange, Oliver thought as he passed out bowels, how just this morning when everyone was all spread out and moving around, he had thought that there must be fifty people living here, maybe even a hundred, but now, with everyone lined up all nice and pretty, there didn't seem to be that many. Oliver couldn't count high enough to figure out how many there were, but he knew it was above ten (ten being the highest number he could count to). He looked up suddenly as someone knocked on his head gently. It was Solo, and his blue eyes were wide and amused. "Do I get a bowel kid," he asked with a grin, "or do I have to starve?"

Oliver quickly handed him one of the two remaining bowels. "Where were you Solo?" he asked.

"Where was I when?" Solo took the other bowel from Oliver and dished out a serving for him before handing it back.

Oliver took the bowel without question. "Today, and yesterday too, you said we were gonna go look for my mom, but you never came."

A small smile passed over Solo's face as he shook his head slowly. "Sorry kid, I was really busy. We'll do that tomorrow, okay? I promise."

And as Oliver looked up and saw nothing but truth in Solo's eyes, he believed him and smiled back.

Oliver awoke to nightmare induced screams that night, but they were not his own. He groaned and rolled over just in time to see a groggy, half awake Samson stumble out of the room and towards the sound. "Who's that?" he asked into the darkness.

"Probably just Rats," the darkness answered back, "Go back to sleep."

Oliver tried, really he did, but the thought of Rats suffering from a nightmare eventually drove him out of his blankets and down the hall after Samson. "Shut the damn door, will ya'?" someone called, and he did. There was a beat of heavy silence the minute he closed the door, and Oliver bite his lip as he looked this way and that. Which way was it? Left? As if she had merely taken a breath, Rats began to wail again. Definitely left, Oliver thought and ran in that direction, passed the door entirely, and stumbled back a few steps where he stood in the door way looking in, his courage gone completely. Without the walls to muffle them, Rats' cries took on words, words that made Oliver's blood run cold as he stood in the doorway silently, watching Rats as she struggled in Samson's arms, beating her small fists helplessly against his broad chest. "Where's my mommy?!" she screamed, her voice already hoarse from fever and yelling, "Where is she?! I want my mommy!"

"She's gone Rachel, remember," Samson whispered, his voice shaking, "She's . . . dead, she's in heaven, remember? She can't come back, God won't let her."

"God shouldn't have let her die in the first place! You shouldn't have let her die in the first place! You always told me you was strong, but you ain't! Why'd you let her die?!" Her rage now directed at someone, Rats began to furiously pound against Samson's chest even harder than before and Samson, his eyes showing defeat and a guilt long repressed, let her.

Oliver felt a hand on his shoulder and he spun around to look into Solo's weary blue eyes. "What happened to them?" Oliver whispered.

"It's not for me to tell," Solo whispered back.

Words seemed to spill out of Oliver's mouth before he even knew what he was saying. "Where's my mommy?" But didn't he already know? She was at the supermarket buying dinner, or at their apartment putting on her makeup, or at the park sitting on a swing; waiting for him. Wasn't she?

Solo sighed, and the sigh was a sigh that someone gives when the thing they have been avoiding for so long suddenly arrives, and there is no hiding anymore. "I think you already know the answer to that," he said with a soft voice.

A small part of Oliver's heart that had grown cold when Dodger first said the words 'she's gone' began to grow, to expand, until Oliver's entire body felt cold, very cold. "She's . . . she's gone." Somehow, he had always known, his mind had just refused to believe what his heart had already accepted. She was gone . . . and she was never coming back.

Solo gently took him in his arms and held him tightly. "I looked for her kid, I really did. I went back to the supermarket, I checked all the hospitals, but she just wasn't anywhere. And I know it's sad, but we've all lost someone, and we've all kept on going, you've just got to keep on going, and not think about it too much, that's all." His voice broke and he bowed his head, as if remembering his own past and his own losses, then he shook his head and looked back up, his voice taking on a much stricter tone. "Here's what I'm going to do kid, to help you move on. I'm going to let you stay here, with us, and I'm going to protect you, and nothing is going to happen to you again, got that? You're safe here. And I'm going to keep you busy, so that you won't think about her until you're ready. But before all that, I need you to do one thing for me."

Oliver slowing lifted up his head, his once bright eyes as dull as an un-shined jewel.

"If you're going to stay here as a street rat, you're going to have to be a street rat. You've got a good name kid, a respectable name, but it's no name for a street rat, and it's tying you to a past you can't never have again. So for tonight, you're name's still Oliver and you're still a sad little boy who's looking for his mom and his home, but when you wake up tomorrow, you're not going to be Oliver any more. You'll wake up, and you'll be one of my street rats through and through, and I'll teach you how to steal, and hide, and how to yield a knife like the best of them. And you won't even remember what your old name was, because that's not you anymore, you're someone else now, and you've got a name that you picked out for yourself: your own name. And until you pick that name; I'm just going to call you 'kid,' got that?"

Oliver nodded mutely, and then turned his head to look back into the room where Rats was still sobbing, sobbing silent sobs now, but they were heavy with pain and loneliness. And for a moment, he felt his heart sob with her; sobbing with just as much pain and loneliness as she was, but no tears came to his eyes. Boys don't cry, he reminded himself, and the tears didn't fall; wouldn't fall, for years to come.

His mother was gone . . . and she was never coming back.

* * *

_I lost my mother when I was little, but it's okay; I barely knew her anyways. I lost Solo when I was a little older, but it's okay; he went to a better place. I lost Father Maxwell and Sister Helen when I was a little older, but it's okay; they were always preaching about heaven anyway. I lost a lot of other people too: street rats that died in the Plague or at the cruel hands of hunger, religious people that burnt or got crushed to death at the church, nameless people on the street that I'd pass and have no idea who they were or how they died, but it's okay; they would have died in the end anyway. I'm not upset about it anymore, and I can tell you all this with a smile on my face and a shrug of my shoulders, but if you look closely, you might see that the light in my eyes has faded; in fact, it's nearly gone out completely. Don't worry; it'll be back soon enough, once I've gotten a chance to convince myself that what I say is true; that it really is okay. But I'm about to tell you something that I've never told anyone else. And I'm only gonna say this once, because we've all got losses and we've all got to deal with it by ourselves, so listen closely: It's not okay, it's never been okay, and it's never going to be okay. None of them should have died, they all had a life ahead of them and they deserved so much more. I should have been the one to go, not them. And that's the last time I'm going to say that; now that I've gotten it out, maybe the guilt will go away, maybe I'll convince myself that it's okay, just like I've convinced everyone else._

_My name is Duo Maxwell, and I've lost nearly everyone I've ever known in my life, but it's okay; it should have been me anyway._

__

tbc


End file.
